


Grocery Run

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Food, Grocery Shopping, M/M, Multi, Re-adjusting to civilian life, Soldiers, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two am, and there's one grocery store open in all of town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grocery Run

The first thing Wash does after getting home after his trip is open the door and fall on Maine. Tucker laughs, at least Wash thinks he laughs. He’s a bit busy falling asleep. 

The second thing Wash does after his trip is wake up.Around two a.m.  Tucker’s snoring in his ear, an arm thrown over Wash’s chest, and Maine’s nowhere to be seen. Wash’s face gets caught between a smile and a frown. On the one hand, Tucker. On the other hand, _loud_. 

The fourth thing Wash does is pad into the kitchen. Maine quirks an eyebrow at him over his spoon, a mixing bowl full of cereal sitting in front of him. Wash would frown about that if it were Tucker and check to see if there are any clean bowls _left_ , but because it’s Maine he doesn’t bother. Maine prefers large portions.

The fifth thing Wash does is open the refrigerator.

There’s nothing there.

He looks again. A lonely Chinese take out container, a stick of butter, and half an onion. Empty.

He looks at Maine. Looks at his bowl. There’s no milk sitting next to it.

“What are you eating that with?” he asks. 

Maine tips the bowl towards him. Water.

“Hey, you’re up,” Tucker says, leaning against the doorjamb. His sleep pants are slung low on his hips, but Wash is focused now. Mostly focused.

“There’s no food in this house,” Wash says. 

“Hm?” Tucker asks, wiping some sleep out of his eyes.

“No food,” Wash continues. “What did you guys eat when I was away? I was away a _week_.”

“I dunno,” Tucker says, exchanging a glance with Maine. “Pizza.”

Wash looks at the garbage can. There is, indeed, a stack of pizza boxes next to it. 

“Oh my god.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad!” Tucker protests. “We got, like, the spinach one that one time, that’s healthy.”

“Pancakes,” Maine says.

“Yeah, and I made pancakes, too!” Tucker says. “There.”

“Pizza and pancakes,” Wash says, overwhelmed with despair. 

Maine keeps eating his cereal.

“Get your coats,” Wash says,m tone steely. “We’re going to the grocery store.”

“What, now?” Tucker yelps.

Maine huffs a laugh and gets his coat.

“Yes,” Wash says. “Right now.”

*

Luckily, there is one grocery store open at two in the morning. Wash grumbles as he gets a cart.

“You two go get some fruit,” he orders, pointing toward the produce section. Tucker opens his mouth to complain. “Fruit, Tucker. Pizza sauce is not a fruit.”

And then he rolls the cart away into an aisle with the air of a man determined.

Tucker and Maine exchange a befuddled glance. In the middle of the produce section. In the grocery store. At two a.m. While their boyfriend’s mad at them. How did their lives get here?

“So,” Tucker says. “Fruit.”

Maine makes an agreeing noise. They look out on the tiered displays with the same trepidation one might look at a jungle. Maine would probably be more comfortable in a jungle, Tucker thinks. 

Fruit. They gotta get fruit before Wash’s gets back or things are going to get _shrill_.

“Hey, apples,” Tucker says, taking in the display in front of them. “He can’t bitch about apples.”

Maine grunts a laugh. Tucker retrieves one of those little plastic sacks from the roller and considers the lines of fruit.

“What kind of apples do you like?” Tucker asks. Maine shrugs. “C’mon, man, you don’t even know what kind of apples you like?”

Maine takes a deep breath. Tucker waits. When the words come, they’re careful, rumbling up from deep in his chest. 

“Never bought any,” Maine says. “Army brat. School lunch, cafeterias. Rations. Don’t know what kind they were.”

He shrugs again, his piece said. 

Tucker looks at him. He looks weird in the too-bright light of the grocery, in front of the colorful fruit. Too big. Too real, or maybe not real enough, too alien, like gravity shifts around him. He always liked that about Maine, but here the pull is almost too much, makes him ache. 

Tucker looks at the display.

“So, we try them all,” he says. 

He spins the bag dispenser, comes back with a handful of bags. 

“C’mon,” he says. “Two of each, in case you get indecisive or some shit. You work left, I’ll work right.”

*

Wash hears them approaching from an aisle away.

“Now, these little green ones are fucking _good_ , okay, that’s why we got four. No, fuck off, Granny Smith are way better than Pink Ladies, trust me, man. Oh, shut up. You’re so immature.”

Wash comes around the corner and there they are, their arms full of apples.

“How many did you get?” Wash asks, bemused.

“All of them,” Tucker says, dumping his cargo into the cart. “There. Fruit. Asshole.”

Maine places his bags in the cart, exchanges a look with Wash.

“Every kind,” he says. 

Wash nods in understanding, the corners of his own lips turning up. 

“Oh, and we got bananas,” Tucker says, waggling his eyebrows. 

Wash doesn’t react, totally not thinking of the popsicles hiding underneath the frozen ravioli

The look the clerk gives them as she rings up their twenty-four apples is deadly, but Tucker glares right back at her, taking a step closer to Maine. Maine exchanges a glance with Wash over Tucker’s head, his eyes amused and fond.

All three of them are tired by the time they get home, the only stop between the front door and their bed being the kitchen to put away aby of the perishables. 

When Wash gets up the next morning, the apples are lined up on the counter, carefully labeled. Maine’s sitting at the table, peeling one.

“Which kind?” Wash asks, sitting next to him.

The knife flashes between them, a long curl of peel falling to the table. 

“Red Delicious,” Maine says. 

He separates the a slice from the rest of the apple, considers it. Takes a bite.

“Do you like it?” Wash asks. 

Maine chews thoughtfully. Takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. 

“No,” he says, mouth testing out the word. “No.”

Maine considers the apple in his hand, the line of apples against the counter. He looks at Wash. Looks at the garbage can. Looks at the apple again.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Wash says. “I like them.”

Maine offers the apple to him, and Wash takes it. He doesn’t bother slicing it, just brings it to his lips and takes a bite. The sound is crisp, bright in the quiet of the kitchen.

Maine gets another apple, begins peeling it. 

“Gala,” he says.

Wash hmms an acknowledgement. Takes another bite.


End file.
